Milk
by PretendYouKnowTheWords
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Someone is messing with John's head.  And he can't take it.


_**Post-Reichenbach. Someone is messing with John's head. And he can't take it. **_

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The first time John noticed it, it didn't register. He stared at the unopened carton of milk in the fridge and picked it up without thinking. He unscrewed the top, took a few gulps straight from the bottle and left it on the counter. He didn't bother putting the cap back on.

The next day, playing through the same old mindless routine he'd fallen into, he went to the fridge for his morning drink. Funny, he didn't remember putting the milk back. But there it sat, full and unopened. Wait. Unopened. He picked up the carton and started at in disinterested confusion for a second. He was sure he'd opened it yesterday. Hadn't he?

It didn't matter. He'd have shrugged if he could muster the will to care that much. As it was he simply opened the bottle, took a long swig, nearly finishing the whole thing, and chucked it into the overflowing bin.

Then he went back to the armchair and continued the daily activity of staring into space.

I-I

It was nearing 4am and John sat slumped in the armchair, his head resting uncomfortably in the crook of his arm, his legs curled underneath him. Occasionally he would jerk violently, his brow furrowing. He muttered noises but nothing coherent.

A tall figure passed him in the dim light. For a moment it stopped, a foot from the chair. The intruder didn't make a sound and they didn't stay still long. With a sharp clenching of their fist and a swift jerk of their head to look away they moved swiftly to the kitchen.

The figure opened the fridge carefully, sliding a finger inbetween the door and the side, holding down the pressure switch that would turn on the light. Silently he placed an item on the shelf. Without a sound he shut the door and left.

I-I

This time John knew he was going mad. He looked back and forth between the unopened carton in his hand and the half-empty one resting precariously on the overflowing rubbish bin. He tried to call to Mrs Hudson but his unused voice rasped. With a cough and another attempt he managed to call over his shoulder "Mrs Hudson?"

It didn't take long for her to appear in the doorway, poking her head into the kitchen with a mixture of relief and worry. "Yes dear? Is everything alright?"

"Is this your milk?" Straight to the point.

"Beg your pardon?"

"The milk, Mrs Hudson." He turned around fully, shaking the carton as if to prove a point."This milk, the one that keeps appearing in our, -my, fridge even when I don't buy it." He stumbled over the words. The wrong ones. Always the wrong words, the ones that don't fit anymore even though they do, they really fit, they're the best fit but now they just don't count. John could feel his rage building and he took a breath, eyes closed, to try and calm it. His fist clenched around the handle of the milk carton.

Mrs Hudson's look of relief that John was finally talking again had vanished, replaced completely by worry and confusion. "I- I don't know where that milk came from. It's not mine, certainly."

John's eyes flashed open. "Tell me it is. _Please_. Tell me you bought it and put it here and you just can't remember or something. Tell me I'm not going mad."

"I-I-..."

"Because you're not our- MY- housekeeper Mrs Hudson. You never have been. You don't buy milk. We always run out and he never gets it so I always get it even when I have to fight a bloody chip-and-pin machine for the privilege. "

"John my dear-"

"NO!" He shouted out and threw the milk carton at the wall. It collided with such force that the plastic smashed, milk flew everywhere, drenching the wall and the floor and the counter. "It's not fair! Whoever's screwing with my head, just STOP! I can't take it, okay? I've had enough! I quit!"

And he sank to floor. His whole body folded in on itself and he wept. Mrs Hudson hurried over, wrapping her arms around him, murmuring words of comfort and of kindness.

And there they stayed until it grew dark and finally the tears stopped flowing and all that was left was numbness. He let Mrs Hudson take him to his room, no thought for the armchair. She kissed his forehead and hugged him one last time before leaving him.

Silently he crawled into bed, fully clothed and lay without moving, save for the rise and fall of his chest.

I-I

Sherlock surveyed the mess in front of him. The kitchen floor was covered in what was easy enough to deduce as dried milk. So were the wall and the counter. He had moved past the empty armchair with a deep sense of worry but now that feeling was settling into dread. He whispered, "John."

Suddenly light flooded the room. Sherlock span round to see John, hand on the light switch, staring at him, his expression, for once, unreadable.

The carton of milk in Sherlock's hand fell to floor.

Before John would be wide eyed about the fact someone, anyone, had caught Sherlock Holmes unawares to the point he'd dropped something in surprise. But that was then and this was now and it wasn't relevant.

They stood in silence for a long time. Then Sherlock slowly bent down, picked up the milk carton and turned around. He opened the fridge, put it inside and was in the process of turning back around when something hard came smashing into his face, throwing him backwards. He slammed into the fridge and slid to the floor.

John stood above him, panting heavily, fists clenched and knuckle bleeding. You didn't need to be a master of deduction to read his expression now. Thundering anger stared down at Sherlock Holmes and he flinched.

"What. Is. Wrong. With. You?"

"Hello John."

"You were dead! I saw you fall! I felt your pulse! You were dead Sherlock, I know, I've seen a lot of dead people in my time and you were not faking."

"Clearly I was."

John's fist came out of nowhere and he was kneeling, with a leg either side of Sherlock, fist raised to punch again. "You bastard! You absolute, robotic, heartless bastard!" He punched him again. His whole body shook.

Sherlock raised an arm to block the punch, grabbed John's wrist and twisted. He bucked his hips and spun around until now John was on the floor and Sherlock leaned over him, clutching his wrist in his hand. "I'm sorry John!"

"Sorry!" John spat, shouting. "Sorry? Do you have any idea what you've put me through? What you've put everyone through?"

Sherlock said quietly, defeated. "Yes."

"But you just don't care? Is that it? So what, are we all just an experiment to you?"

"No. No."

"Sure looks that way Sherlock. Poke and prod them, see what happens. Isn't that what you do? Was the milk another way to torture me?"

Sherlock looked startled now, confused. "Torture you? No. I just..."

"Just what?"

"I just... the milk. I always made you get it."

"So?"

"So I thought if I couldn't do anything, I could at least make sure you didn't have to get it now. Take my turn. For once I could do something for you just because I could. I could make things better."

John deflated like a punctured balloon. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, sighing. "You stupid bloody idiot."

Sherlock's silence was confused and John opened his eyes to look at him. "You were being sentimental. You're never sentimental." John let the ghost of a smile pass his lips. "You suck at it."

Sherlock looked affronted. His expression made John start to laugh and once he'd begun he couldn't stop. He sat on the dirty kitchen floor, head thrown back in laughter, uncontrollable. Sherlock smiled and stared and felt warm for the first time in a long, long while.

Finally the laughter subsided and Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but John put his hand over it and said "No. I don't want to know. Not yet. Leave the why, and the how and everything until tomorrow. Just right now, let me happy that you're here." He moved his hand to rest on the side of Sherlock's face, gazing in quiet wonder that he was solid, that he was _real_. "There's time to talk this through later. To be angry again. Now... now, I just don't care."

And he pulled Sherlock into a hug so fierce it hurt them both but they didn't care. Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder and John's arms tightened around his neck.

"I'm glad you're back."

"Me too."

I-I

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_**First Sherlock story. Always hard to get into writing new characters so let me know what you think. Sherlock was pretty hard to get right, still not sure I've managed but oh well. Hope you liked it :) Please drop a quick review. **_


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